


how could you describe this heart?

by medeas



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - No Powers, High School AU, M/M, but penny is a prominent part of the fic, literally just simon and baz but in high school and with a school dance looming, penny and shepherd is mentioned in like one scene, sorry for this it's literally fluff and also baz acting all poetic and such, they're still stupid tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:27:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22042549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/medeas/pseuds/medeas
Summary: A love story told through classic literature.
Relationships: Penelope Bunce & Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Penelope Bunce/Shepard, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 26
Kudos: 96





	how could you describe this heart?

**_i. I should have gone through life half-awake if you’d had the decency to leave me alone._ **

\- E.M. Forster, Maurice. 

It’s quite cool outside the day Baz comes to the realization. It is not an earth-shattering one. That is, the sun does not cease its motion. No, the thought has been approaching him quietly for a while now, inching ever so much closer each time the other boy is near. Feelings previously unknown twine tightly around Baz until he feels so encased that he has to purposely take time to breathe.

He ignores them still. 

“All right?” Simon yells, kicking up leaves as he skips over to Baz. He slows only once the two are parallel to each other. Baz tries not to think about this implication. 

“Hey,” he answers back instead of allowing his mind to gravitate towards the unthinkable. “You’re walking back today?” 

Simon nods, his curls bouncing around wildly. “Yep.” Baz resists the urge to reach out and run a hand through his hair. He tells himself that, like with all things, this infatuation he has with his friend shall pass. It's as beautiful of a lie as any.

“You hate walking,” Baz remarks. He fiddles with his fingers, praying Simon does not take notice of his uncharacteristic fidgeting. Leaves crunch repeatedly under their boots as they walk, and it takes Simon a moment to reply. 

“Not when it’s with you.” Baz rolls his eyes at this. It takes every ounce of will inside of himself to push down a scream. This should not be so difficult, he thinks, pointedly avoiding Simon’s gaze. They’re friends, have been for years now. Being with him should be easy. 

They walk along for a few more minutes in silence. The air turns crisp, as though it too is unsure of how to behave. Leaves continue to break underneath their weight. Baz thinks that everything in nature does. 

“Look,” Simon says, holding out a hand to stop Baz before he is able to take another step forward. He’s pointing towards the pavement opposite them, yet Baz does not see anything worth noting. 

“What?” He asks, growing impatient. “What is it?” Then he sees it. A small brown squirrel, standing on its hind legs as though reaching for the unattainable. Baz can sort of guess what that’s like. “That’s what you’ve stopped for? A squirrel?” 

“It needs a name,” Simon declares as though what he’s said makes perfect sense. He’s shifting back and forth now, and Baz can tell that he is attempting to keep warm. If he were not himself but instead a braver man, Baz would wrap an arm round Simon’s shoulder, or at least offer him his jacket. He does neither, never one to claim something as foolish as bravery.

“Pardon?” He says instead, continuing to fiddle with his fingers. His face contorts into a sneer, a ward against all emotion that threatens to break loose.

Simon shrugs. “We have to name that squirrel. And,” he points to another across the road, “that one as well.” 

Simon appears to be growing colder, but he refuses to move until his task is complete. This is not much of an inconvenience to Baz, who does not typically get cold and wishes to spend more of his time with Simon, no matter how deep down this particular desire is. “You’re mad,” Baz says, but he is shaking his head with a small grin on his face. 

Simon grins right back. “Maybe.” It’s a moment before either of them speak again.

“Alright,” Baz relents, causing Simon to grin wider. He can never say no to that smile. “How do I name them?”

“Just say the first name that you come up with. Here, I’ll go first.” He looks directly at the second squirrel and purses his lips. “That’s Martha.” 

Baz scoffs. “Martha? You’ve just doomed that squirrel to a positively dreadful life.” 

“Did not!” Simon gasps in mock offense. 

“Indeed,” Baz continues, “all of the other squirrels will bully her for possessing such an unfortunate, basic name.” 

“Okay Tyrannus,” Simon says pointedly. Baz huffs. “I’d like to see you come up with something better.” 

Immediately Baz points to the squirrel on the pavement and proclaims its name to be, “Bartholomew.” Simon chokes on air. 

“I- Bartholomew?” 

“The third,” Baz adds. “Bartholomew the third.” 

“And that’s supposed to be better than Martha?” Simon sputters, eliciting a nod from Baz. 

“Quite.” 

Simon laughs. It’s a high-pitched thing, much too loud for Baz’s typical tastes. He sounds like a madman, his madness bleeding into Baz before he has the chance to put up a shield. It’s addicting, this feeling of losing control. It is also terrifying. It makes Baz want to run away, tear his posters down from his wall and replace them with string and photos of _this and this and this_. A record of Simon's laugh on repeat and the beaming smile that comes with it. 

“I have to go,” Baz says suddenly, ignoring Simon's confused shout of “but you’re walking the wrong way!”. _Is this love_ , he thinks, pulling his coat tighter to his frame, _this dizzy, awful, beautiful, torturous feeling_? 

_Yes_ , something inside of him screams. A whisper would be too kind. 

Baz stops suddenly, taking a deep breath. He opens his eyes. 

**_ii. He stepped down, trying not to look long at [him], as if [he] were the sun, yet he saw [him], like the sun, even without looking._  
**

\- Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina.

They are lying on Baz’s bed, their shoulders brushing against each other and, well, Baz thinks that there are much worse ways to go.

“What does envie mean?” Baz asks Simon even though he already knows the answer. He studies language often, even when it is not needed. There is something about the way in which different languages exist simultaneously in the world that fascinates him. One word can have a thousand other translations to accompany it. It all depends on the way in which one moves their mouth. 

Simon, however, appears to think differently. “Ugh,” he groans, wincing dramatically. “‘M awful at French. Just tell me.” 

“How will you ever learn if I keep giving you the answers?” Baz questions. He tries his hardest to sound serious, but as always, denying Simon something is one of the hardest things that he can do.

“Please?” Simon pouts and turns to face Baz directly. The sunlight filtering in from Baz’s upper window lands picturesquely on his face, a painting on a soft canvas. Simon’s freckles are illuminated. Baz suddenly wants nothing more than to lay there forever, counting the freckles on Simon’s face and kissing the moles around his neck. After all, something so ethereal cannot be seen as wrong. 

“Desire,” Baz swallows. He can’t bring himself to look at Simon any longer. “It means to want.” 

“Brilliant.” Baz can hear Simon scribble something down on a piece of paper, but he remains unable to glance back at him. Still, Simon’s light shines so brightly that Baz cannot escape it even if he wants to. And admittedly, there are times in which he wants nothing more. 

A strand of hair falls on Baz’s face and he elects to let it remain, almost as though it can act as a shield from all of this… this want. He thinks that things would be easier if he were to walk out of the door right now and never call Simon again. He thinks that maybe he could breathe if he weren’t being suffocated by a constant need. He thinks that he is a masochist, and besides, this is his bedroom. 

Simon’s voice slices through Baz’s lamenting. “Copier?”

“To copy.” 

“Bonsoir?”

“Good evening.” 

“Quand?”

“When.” Baz sighs, mustering up the courage to glance at Simon once more. “Come on, Snow. This is too easy. Give me a challenge.” 

Simon reaches out to shove Baz, grinning all the while. His touch is electric, and Baz cannot help but shiver. 

Challenge well received. 

**_iii. I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul._  
**

\- Pablo Neruda, Sonnet XVII.

“That one,” Simon points at a dark black squirrel as he and Baz walk onto the school grounds side-by-side.

“Desdemona.” Baz responds without even looking. Simon shoots him a dreadful look. 

“Did you just make that up?” 

“What are you on about?” Baz shoots him the same dreadful look back. “She’s a character from Othello. You know, the play we are reading in English this week?”

“Oh.” Simon kicks a pebble sheepishly. It flies quite impressively across the pavement and into a metal grate, falling into the abyss below. “I thought that we were reading Hamlet.” 

“How on earth did you manage to mix the two up?”

“I don’t know,” Simon huffs. “I guess I wasn’t paying too much attention.” 

“Clearly.” 

They continue to bicker until they enter the building and see their friend Penny slouching impatiently against the wall. “Took you guys long enough to get here,” she comments, interrupting their squabble. 

“Apologies,” Baz says. “I had to explain to our friend Snow here the difference between Othello and Hamlet.” 

Simon gapes. “Did not!” He turns to Penny pleadingly. “He didn’t, Pen.” Penny simply rolls her eyes. This seems to be a common occurrence for her when the three of them are together. 

“Shut up, the both of you.” She begins to walk towards her locker and the two boys clamor after her.

“I think Bunce is more prone to agree with me,” Baz whispers just to see Simon get riled up. It is easier to pretend he is not hopelessly in love with the boy if he continues to poke fun at him.

“Anyway,” Penny says loudly once they reach her locker, an indication that she has overheard Baz’s comment. “Have you two thought about the upcoming school formal? Shepherd just asked me to go with him last night.” Her statement is punctuated with a shy smile, one that, for Penny, is slightly out of character. 

“Well of course he’d ask you. You’re dating,” Baz replies, causing Simon to hit him lightly on the arm. 

“Ignore him,” Simon declares. “We’re happy for you, Pen.” 

Penny ruffles Simon’s hair. Something coils tightly in Baz’s stomach. He knows better than to be jealous of Penny- they're all friends, have been for ages. It's the familiarity he envies, the way in which she is able to casually touch Simon and everyone takes it in stride. “Thanks, Si.”

Now it is Simon who begins to grin shyly. “I think… I think that I’m going with Agatha.” 

“From Biology?” Penny asks at the same time Baz questions, “Wellbelove?” 

“Yeah,” Simon answers them both, and the thing in Baz’s stomach grows ten sizes. 

Penny, on the other hand, grins widely. “That’s incredible, Simon! I'd figured that you've fancied her for ages.” _He has_? Baz thinks, as Penny gasps and exclaims, “Oh my god! We can go on a double date! We’ll take photos together at my place- it’ll be brilliant!”

Normally, Penny’s happiness is extremely contagious. She reminds Baz of Simon in that way. You cannot help but feel what they’re feeling, as though they’ve harnessed their energy and thrown it back to you. 

But all Baz says now is, “oh.”

Simon’s shy smile fades into one of embarrassment. “Uh, yeah.” He’s addressing both Penny and Baz again, and Baz wants to do something daft like break into tears right there in the corridor. 

Instead Baz says, “good for you, Snow. You’ve finally found someone willing to put up with your piss-poor habits.” 

Simon freezes. Baz is reminded of earlier times, where he would say things like that to Simon and mean them. Before they’d really spoken to each other in full. Before Baz saw Simon smile. Before Baz fell in love with it. 

“Bugger off,” Simon is saying. There is a little more venom behind his words than usual. Baz ignores him, pulling his scarf off violently and walking away. He should go back and apologize to Simon, talk with him like a rational human being- he knows this. 

There is a part of him that wants Simon to suffer, though. To feel the pain that Baz is feeling now. He wants to dare Simon: _kiss me, kill me, regret me. I’ll drown happily in a sea of your body, even if you use me only to put me back on the shelf. Hide me away- that’s how I love you, anyway._

**_iv. If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more._  
**

\- Jane Austen, Emma.

Baz spends the rest of the week sulking. It’s pathetic, really. The boy he loves is in love with someone else- so what? Isn’t that how most stories really go, anyway?

Dante wrote about the different levels of Hell. Baz doesn’t know that he believes in any of it, but one thing for him rings true: this terrible feeling inside of him, this is an inferno. This, him- it will all end in flames. 

The next few days at school are spent actively avoiding Simon. He’s taken to eating lunch alongside Wellbelove and Baz may be a masochist, but he isn’t stupid. He knows how a lunch with Simon, Wellbelove, and himself would end. So he sits alone picking at his sandwiches, glancing at Simon and pretending to not have been staring when Simon sees him looking. The cycle repeats. 

That is, until Penny sits down across from him. 

“Look,” she says without preamble, dropping her lunch tray onto the table with a loud clack. “It’s been three days. I’m not quite sure what your problem is but it ends now.” 

Baz picks a tomato out of his sandwich and pointedly ignores Penny, who groans loudly once she realizes that she is not going to receive a response. “Imbeciles!” She sighs. “The two of you. Listen. You’re clearly brooding, and he’s clearly miserable. He thinks he’s done something to upset you, which I know can’t be the case.”

“And why not?” Baz asks, slightly offended. He’s always known that Penny prefers Simon- they are best friends, after all. Her blatant favoritism is still surprising, though. It is rare to see Penny choosing sides when they begin to argue.

“Because you haven’t even bothered to talk with him about it. If he’d done something wrong, you’d have told him about it.” She has a point. Baz has never been afraid to call Simon out on his poor behavior. 

“He’s got Wellbelove to talk with now.” It’s petty, but this is not the reason Baz instantly regrets saying it. 

“Oh my god,” Penny gasps, her eyes sparkling with recognition. Baz wants to get up and run away, sandwich be damned. “You like him.” 

“We’re friends, Bunce. I don’t not like him.” He’s avoiding the underlying question and they both know it. Penny sighs. 

“Baz.” A pause. “You know what I mean.” 

“No, I don’t.” Baz says, and then, “now leave me alone,” which completely gives him away. It’s not that he’s always been a good liar- Simon is just oblivious. Unfortunately, Penny picks up on just about everything that Simon seems to throw away. 

Penny slides her hand across the table and Baz immediately yanks his away. His eyes are burning. 

She lets out a breath. “What are you so afraid of?” 

_Everything._ “Nothing.” 

“Baz-” 

“No,” he cuts her off, rising quickly from his seat. “I’m not talking about this with you. It’s none of your business. Alright?” 

He walks away without allowing her to answer. 

That night, he caves.

**(22:29) Hello.**

Penny responds right away.

(22:29) Hey. 

(22:30) Don’t worry, Baz. I haven’t told Simon.  
I won’t tell Simon.

**(22:31) Okay. Good.**

**(22:32) I mean. Thank you.**

(22:34) You don’t have to thank me, Baz.  
I’m sorry for pushing you. 

(22:35) I’m sorry about all of it.

_Me too_ , Baz thinks.

**(22:37) There’s nothing to be sorry about.**

(22:39) Okay…

(22:40) Good night, Baz.

**(22:41) Night, Bunce.**

Penny wants to discuss it further. Of course she does. Baz can tell by the way she abruptly ends the conversation, as though she knows that if she keeps talking she’ll eventually crack and demand answers. Baz wishes he could honestly say that there’s nothing to tell. In reality, there are too many words. How could he ever pick the right ones? He has an entire heart full.

Leonardo di Vinci drew anatomically correct photos of hearts. Once, beside a particularly special sketch, he wrote, ‘ _how could you describe this heart in words without filling a whole book?'_

Baz knows exactly how heavy the question really is. 

**_v. Just in case you ever foolishly forget; I’m never not thinking of you._  
**

\- Virginia Woolf, Selected Diaries.

There are many formulas for heartbreak.

Question 1: Simon is going to the dance with Wellbelove. Simon and Baz haven’t spoken. Simon has no idea why. Solve for X. 

Answer: Baz hasn’t slept properly in days. 

It’s ridiculous, really, just how much this is affecting him. Baz can mope all he wants. He can stare at Simon’s contact photo, scroll obsessively through Wellbelove’s instagram, wonder why. Why he has these feelings, and why Simon does not share them. 

He can also stare into the mirror, which will provide him with his answer. 

It is decided then and there. Baz knows this needs to end. He barely understands why it began in the first place. His capacity for pain must be lower than he originally believed. 

Just as Baz moves to pick up his phone, it pings. He checks the name on his lockscreen and- oh. 

Simon.

_(13:45) [Image]  
Saw this bloke in the car park._

It’s a photo of a squirrel, nothing more, but Baz would be lying if he said it has not make his entire week.

**(13:47) How do you know it’s a bloke?**

_(13:47) Just have a feeling._

**(13:48) Well what is it, then?**

_(13:48) What?_

**(13:49) His name. Which did you choose this time?**

The reply comes instantly.

__

_(13:49) Baz._

**(13:50) What.**

_(13:51) That’s his name. Baz.  
(13:52) Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch, if we’re to be technical about it._

**(13:55) Oh.  
(13:56) Why?**

_(13:56) It’s just… the first name that came to mind, I suppose._

Baz cannot breathe.

**(14:00) Oh.**

He turns his phone off to ensure he doesn't do anything idiotic such as throw it against the wall or ring Simon up and pour out his heart right that second.

But not before he saves the photo of that damned squirrel. 

**_vi. I wish you to know that you have been the last dream of my soul._  
**

\- Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities.

English class. They are meant to be analyzing sonnets, but Baz cannot stop staring at the back of Simon’s head. It's a running trend, one that Baz is unable to stop.

“Hey,” the object of his infatuation turns around to face him. “Which one have you chosen? I’m stuck between sixteen and thirty-three, though I don’t quite understand any of them if I’m being honest.” Baz scoffs.

“Do eighteen,” he tells him. “It’s the most famous one.” 

“Perfect,” Simon replies, and though he turns back around, Baz’s mind is still caught on a loop of _himhimhimhim_. 

Ever since Baz got over himself and made amends with Simon, all the other boy can talk about is the formal and, more irritatingly, Agatha Wellbelove. It’s killing Baz little by little; each time Simon mentions Wellbelove and there’s a grin on his face, a part of Baz withers away into dust. He cannot show it, though. So Baz puts on a smirk, every single time. It hurts more than he’d ever been prepared for. And suddenly, sitting in English class with both his and Shakespeare’s heart in front of him, Baz is unable to bear the enormous weight. 

So he does the only thing he can do. 

He writes. 

When the English teacher comes by to collect his work, all Baz has to show for the hour is a vandalized sonnet and a letter without a signature. 

He takes the failing grade. 

“I don’t get it,” Simon says and they exit the classroom together. “Why didn’t you finish the assignment?” 

“I couldn’t think of anything.” Baz shrugs, as though this is a typical occurrence for him. Simon, unfortunately, knows otherwise.

“You? You couldn’t think of anything?” All Baz can do is shrug once more. “Bollocks,” Simon declares. “Something’s bothering you.” 

Baz scoffs. “Don’t be daft. I’m just tired, that’s all, Snow.” 

“Come off it,” Simon says. He opens his mouth to interrogate Baz further but is stopped by the arrival of Agatha Wellbelove. 

“All right, Simon?” She greets before glancing up at Baz. “Oh, hello.” 

“Hey Aggie,” Simon smiles. Baz merely waves. 

“I got my dress,” Agatha explains, her attention geared towards Simon. “It’s a light turquoise color.” Simon scrunches up his nose at the news and it takes every bit of Baz’s willpower to not kiss him right then and there. 

“Does that mean my tie has to be turquoise as well?” Simon asks, deflating when Agatha nods. “It’s just, turquoise is really not my color.” 

Baz disagrees, thinks that every color looks incredible so long as it’s on Simon’s body, but says nothing. He walks away instead, unable to handle third-wheeling a conversation about formals and ties when it involves Simon and someone who isn’t him. 

In a moment of madness, Baz takes a detour to Simon’s locker. Once he is sure that no one is paying attention, he slides two pieces of paper through the top before walking casually away. 

**_vii._ **

_~~Simon,  
I look down at this paper and can’t seem to see anything but your stupid face.  
No- let’s try again.~~ _

_~~Simon,  
The thought of you won’t leave me alone.  
Git.~~ _

_Simon,  
There is nothing I can say to make you love me.  
That sounds terribly depressing when I write it down. _

_What I mean is: We orbit each other yet never touch. There is no such force of gravity created in order to pull us together. The word unrequited leaves a bitter taste on my tongue but I’m beginning to live with it.  
~~I’m still learning how.~~_

_What I mean is: A part of me breaks away every day, latches itself onto you. I’ve given up so much of myself that sometimes I’m afraid I don’t know who I’ve become. But then you let out that damned smile of yours and suddenly everything makes sense._

_What I mean is: I defiled Shakespeare for you._

_You’re not the chosen one, the eighth wonder of the world, or anything of the like. Fireworks don’t go off when you look at me. Something else happens, though. Something difficult to explain. It’s… it’s peace.  
I look at you, and I’m home. _

_You see, I've realized that it is okay, my heart belonging to you. It’s where it’s meant to be.  
It’s home._

**  
_viii. You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope._   
**  
****

\- Jane Austen, Persuasion. 

The next day, it all comes crashing down.

“Baz,” demands Penny as she approaches him. Something present on her face makes Baz want to cover his ears and spare himself from whatever she is about to say next. 

“Uh- yeah?” He asks, failing to remain impassive. Penny bites the inside of her cheek, a telltale sign that she would really rather not be having this conversation. 

“Did you leave love notes in Simon’s locker?” 

The entire world stands still. 

“Pardon?” Penny sighs, loud and exasperated. 

“Come off it,” she tells him. “You heard me. I know the answer, don’t think I don’t, but... but I want to hear it from you.” 

“Did you say anything to him?” Baz demands, evading instead of answering. “Does- what did you tell him?” 

Penny folds her arms over her torso, and it’s clear that she refuses to rise to his bait. “Nothing,” she responds, her tone light. “You’re so bloody obvious already.” 

“Okay,” Baz says, lowering his voice. He’s speaking through his teeth now. “Okay, so I lo… so I _like_ Snow. So what? Someone else could have left the note in his locker. Why does it have to be me?” 

“I was with Simon and Agatha when he opened his locker this morning and found them,” Penny explains. “I left as soon as Simon asked Agatha if she had written them but…” Her voice softens now, and Baz is even more uncomfortable than ever before. “I saw the sonnet, Baz. Agatha isn’t even in English this semester, and I know that your class is studying Shakespeare. Simon told me.”

Baz freezes. His stomach plummets to the floor. “Do you think--” 

Penny knows what he is trying to ask. “He’s not _that_ daft, Baz.” 

Baz immediately shrinks. His eyes flicker towards the floor, suddenly unable to look Penny- or anyone for that matter- in the eye. “I know.” 

“Don’t worry,” Penny assures him. Her tone remains soft, as though she is afraid of his imminent fracture. “I won’t say anything. I wouldn’t.” 

All Baz can do is repeat himself. “I know.” 

He spends the rest of the day evading Simon. This means missing English, among other classes, but it is a small price to pay for his sanity. 

And if he leaves school early, well. It is not as though anybody is actively missing him, anyway.

**_ix. We loved with a love that was more than love._  
**

\- Edgar Allan Poe, Annabel Lee.

It is 18:30, and Baz is wondering if he can live without Simon.

He is being dramatic. Of course he can live without him- can breathe, drink, eat, all of that. The real question is one of a different nature. That is, does he _want_ to? 

Baz knows that Simon will probably never want to speak to him again. He’s humiliated the both of them, what with Agatha seeing the notes. Hell, they have probably had a good laugh about it by now. Perhaps they’re off to have another. It’s a pathetic thought, yes, but then again, hasn’t this become the theme of his entire life? It is about time Baz recognizes himself for the ridiculous person that he is and move on. 

It is 18:42, and Baz’s phone chimes.

_(18:42) Come outside._

_(18:43) Please._

_(18:43) I’m not upset with you, Baz.  
Please._

And, well, it is as it's always been. Baz can never deny Simon anything.

“You couldn’t have just rung the doorbell?” Baz questions once he steps into his garden where Simon stands. Normally Simon would scoff at his snide tone, roll his eyes and act as though he is above any insult. 

Today, though, Simon is smiling. “Your family is terrifying,” he says. The smile remains plastered on his face. 

Baz snorts, hiding the way his entire body is on fire. “Your face is terrifying.” 

“You don’t mean that,” Simon says. He’s still smiling. 

Baz surprises himself with his reply. “No. No, I don’t.” 

It seems as though his words have shocked Simon as well. The other boy remains silent until it has almost become unbearable. 

“Why are you here?” Baz asks quietly. His words cut through the air like a knife, but they appear to give Simon the courage to finally look at Baz directly. 

“Go to the formal with me,” he says, voice so low that Baz almost swears he’s heard Simon completely wrong. 

“What?” 

Simon repeats himself. “Go to the formal with me.” And there’s that goddamn smile. 

It is everything that Baz has ever wanted to hear ever since the stupid event was announced but… 

And isn’t that always how it goes? It’s everything he’s ever wanted, but. 

“Wellbelove,” Baz says instead of voicing his thoughts aloud. Because he’s a coward- ask anyone.

Simon shakes his head. He appears frustrated, even though Baz has barely said anything substantial. “No. I-” He huffs. “Baz, I know you put that letter in my locker. And the sonnet,” he adds as an afterthought, a blush now coating his face a beautiful red. 

“Bravo Snow,” Baz says, and he can feel his defenses springing upwards. “You’ve finally proven that you possess common sense. Well done.” 

“Oh shut-” 

“So what?” Baz asks, cutting Simon off completely. “You’re just going to abandon Wellbelove? Or did she leave you first, realize that she can’t deal with being part of a fucked up love triangle? Because believe me, I don’t want to be apart of this either. In fact, I suggest you just run back to her, tell her that-” 

“Shut up!” Simon yells, and it works. Baz closes his mouth immediately. Both boys are breathing heavily, as though they’ve just each run a marathon. Time does not move forward.

Simon is now the one to break the heavy silence. “Why are you like this?” Baz simply laughs in response, hollow and dry. 

“An asshole?” 

Simon shrugs. “Well. Yeah.” 

“I don’t know any other way to be,” Baz says, because it’s easier than explaining that his cruelty is the only protective layer he possess. He's weak, he knows it, and he- “I’m sorry.” He means it.

“Me too,” Simon answers back. Baz believes him. 

“I’m also sorry about the letter. And the sonnet.” 

“Don’t be.” Simon says, “go to the formal with me.” 

Baz bites his lip. _It's everything he's ever wanted, but._ “Wellbelove-”

“Knows,” Simon finishes for him. “And so did I. As soon as I saw the sonnet. I knew. I’m so thick,” he laughs and it’s contagious. Baz finds himself smiling. 

“Just a little.” Simon grins back at him. 

“Baz.” 

“Simon.” 

Simon’s smile becomes even brighter than Baz ever thought possible. _He’s the sun_ , Baz thinks. _All this time. He’s been the sun._ “You called me Simon.” 

No use denying it now. “I did.” 

“Baz,” Simon says again. And then, “I think I love you.” 

“Dont…” 

“No, listen.” Simon places a hand onto Baz’s shoulder, testing the waters. Baz lets him. “As soon as I realized you wrote that letter, my entire face lit up. I swear to god, ask Agatha. She’s the one who told me. She said, ‘you’re in love with them.’ When I asked her who she was talking about she just smiled and said that whoever wrote that letter was the person I was in love with.” He removes his hand from Baz’s shoulder and begins to fiddle with the bottom of his jumper, suddenly nervous. “She was right. I told her I was sorry, that I’d still go to the dance with her, but she just laughed. Told me that I’d asked her in the first place and she didn’t actually have her eye on anyone, anyway. Told me to go and be happy.”

“And this?” Baz gestures between the two of them. He’s surprised that he is even able to string two words together, what with the way his heart is beating wildly at the moment. “This would make you happy?”

“No,” Simon corrects him, “this _does_ make me happy. Whatever we are. It’s just you. You make me happy.” 

Baz closes his eyes. He's almost hesitant to open them afterwards, afraid that the Simon in the garden is a mere figment of an overactive imagination. He opens them, though, and- there he is. Standing here in front of him, all in color, doing nothing except holding Baz's entire universe together. 

“Pink.” 

Simon laughs, his confusion audible. “What?” 

“My suit,” Baz explains. He wonders if it is possible to burst from being so happy, have all of your elation spill out of you like a harsh chemical. “It’s going to be pink.” 

“Oh. Well good.” Simon steps forward, laces their fingers together. Everything falls into place. “Pink is definitely my color.” 

**__**

_**“Maybe… you’ll fall in love with me all over again.”**_

****

****

_**“Hell,” I said, “I love you enough now. What do you want to do? Ruin me?”**_

_**“Yes. I want to ruin you.”**_

****

****

_**“Good,” I said. “That’s what I want too.”** _ **  
**

**\- Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms.**

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: the squirrel thing is 100% inspired by my friend and I. Our Uni campus has been taken over by squirrels, so everytime we see one (which is many times a day) we name it. I always give mine names such as 'Vladimir IV' and she names her squirrels things like 'Chippy'. It irritates me to no end!
> 
> This is the first fic I've published in so long and it's sort of me getting back into the habit of writing, so please have mercy.  
> I love Snowbaz and I love classics + literature, so this was born. Penny and Micah were originally a thing when I wrote the initial draft but then Wayward Son came out and I was like 'oh damn' and changed Micah to Shepherd... oh well.  
> Also: Shakespeare sweetie, I am so sorry.


End file.
